Insomniac

It’s not anxiety.  And it’s not because I don’t want to.  My brain doesn’t switch off. 

 

I’ve written novels, page by page, on the back of my eyelids.  I’ve analyzed movie plot holes to death. 

I’ve learned to tell time by what notes the birds sing.  I’ve seen the sun rise countless times, and never once found it romantic.

Coworkers stumble in around 10:00, three coffee cups in, bemoaning four hours of sleep.

Sometimes, I think that I’m special, that I don’t need rest, that I’m somehow better.  

But I know that’s not true.  I’m not special.  

I’m just tired.